tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039010194335574172018-03-06T20:23:54.560+00:00Catalogue TwentysixCatalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-3998298377117430342009-10-23T21:00:00.004+01:002009-10-26T23:37:49.251+00:00Follow me follow me! Oh! Oh! Follow me!... to my new blog!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.just-somestuff.blogspot.com">www.just-somestuff.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />I've decided to ditch the year-by-year format, and just try and commit to something more steadfast. Please join me! I'll stop messing you all around then, I promise!<br /><br />Thanks xxCatalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-73216278693944585812009-10-11T15:42:00.006+01:002009-10-11T15:48:59.161+01:00Proof. And an incurable knitting fever.I have been being creative, though it hasn't involved much poetry. Maybe I am exploring knitting as a sort of poetry with objects. Very long, thin and flexible objects.<br /></br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHu7mxbBII/AAAAAAAAAME/73kH264VEBo/s1600-h/finished-legwarmers.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHu7mxbBII/AAAAAAAAAME/73kH264VEBo/s320/finished-legwarmers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391352936726725762" /></a><br /></br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHvDKhsw9I/AAAAAAAAAMM/vSzRhSYz9aU/s1600-h/grey-hat-with-me-in-it.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHvDKhsw9I/AAAAAAAAAMM/vSzRhSYz9aU/s320/grey-hat-with-me-in-it.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391353066583540690" /></a><br /></br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHvJK5Fz1I/AAAAAAAAAMU/2l8TlpW1npI/s1600-h/purpur-scarf-in-progress.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/StHvJK5Fz1I/AAAAAAAAAMU/2l8TlpW1npI/s320/purpur-scarf-in-progress.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391353169760866130" /></a><br /></br>Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-31238904295796739152009-10-07T22:08:00.004+01:002009-10-07T22:10:28.037+01:00One in a monthis an unacceptable situation to have gotten myself into. Shucks.<br /><br />I have learned to knit. I have been poorly. I miss swimming. My lungs still hurt if I cycle uphill in the chill nearly-winter wind.<br /><br />A new poem, unrelated:<br /><br /></br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Spurn Head<br /></span><br />The whip of dune grasses and cuts on the soles of my feet.<br />It alters, chances the river that feeds it. I race<br />to the tops and bottoms of dunes that no longer exist.<br /><br />It is downwards that haunts me, giant slow-beat strides<br />in the shifting sand. My legs are salt-numbed and hefty; load-bearing<br />and practical, covered to the knee with every step.<br /><br />I don’t remember the disappointment, the slowing down,<br />but lose myself in the towering impermanence<br />risen from the shining dark. Salt in my hair, cool sand between my toes.<br /><br />I will return with you to this end of the end of the road <br />and lie myself down, my hair in my mouth and then your mouth there<br />with the wind whipping dune grass on us from the folding sands.<br /><br />I will not tell you that there is permanence in its alteration,<br />that this is all I have dreamed of whether you are here or not: <br />that you could be anyone with sour-breath kisses in the dark.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-61275195599872446532009-09-19T22:44:00.001+01:002009-09-19T22:45:31.450+01:00Something new! Callooh! Callay!</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Job’s worth</span><br /><br />Occasional birds flash across the sterile white-out sky<br />and snap my eyes across the high-set windows.<br />This room is monotony too: rows of labelled content<br />and blank goggles reflecting strip-light white.<br />A clatter, and some sudden words—nothing we can look back on<br />from outside time. My memories are like the distant windows:<br />so far above the day-to-day that they seem experimental, avant-garde.<br />I remember days like these flayed bodies in exacting standards of sterility.<br />I am stripped back to colour and unapologetic.<br />I had thought perhaps I wanted the change of discovery,<br />but find myself missing the comfort of endless scrutiny.<br />There are no right-angles I can lean on now,<br />only dreams of white-walled rooms and so many little pieces<br />of thought, gathered in a bleak and chemical silence.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-32284115665111590172009-08-16T16:39:00.002+01:002009-08-16T16:46:49.168+01:00Another one I found that I'd forgotten..</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Inherited<br /></span><br />Generations have died before they've had a chance<br />to tell me how I'll go. One sudden death after another.<br />How do I prepare? Perhaps they are themselves <br />the indication and I'll just go like they did: in the morning <br />unable to sit up for fear of pooling blood; in hospital, <br />a pink swab mopping saliva from sunken parts of face; <br />eight weeks from diagnosis.<br /><br />I could carry round whole heaps of hows to stop it, but slings<br />and plasters are no prevention. Every pain I have could be<br />where things will loosen first, every limp and yawn <br />a last hurrah, a sign of things to come. <br /><br />I am not calm, but my oblivious heart is tapping out the truth <br />on my love-torn ribs: b-bum, b-bum, b-bum—<br />I think hear correctly: all is well yet, all is well.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-40256651987581407512009-08-11T13:23:00.002+01:002009-08-11T13:24:52.684+01:00I just found this on my computer at work.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The blue and yellow roller-boots handed down to me from the 70s</span><br /><br />I was in mid-air when I noticed the blackbird nest:<br />I soon felt the snap of flightlessness in my coccyx.<br /><br />The cats would wait here at the bottom every summer,<br />tasting imaginary bones, re-enacting the catch<br /><br />while the parents bred and fed like crazy<br />their fat, stranded children.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-42777041109683256472009-08-05T23:11:00.002+01:002009-08-05T23:16:17.397+01:00It's been a little while.</br><br />And in that time I have been on holiday. Also, a moth came to visit me that was as big as my palm. I'm not sure where it's gone now, but hopefully out and toward the real moon, wherever that leads, as my big broken paper lantern (as it just learned) is not the same thing and leads only to trouble. And a headache.<br /><br />And so for a photo, first, and then maybe a poem later.<br /></br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/SnoEfd7l76I/AAAAAAAAALs/xPE9Y8jrktw/s1600-h/slug+smaller.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wu-wiH92Ucg/SnoEfd7l76I/AAAAAAAAALs/xPE9Y8jrktw/s400/slug+smaller.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366606844622401442" /></a><br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-7566776098013205072009-07-23T00:03:00.001+01:002009-07-23T00:05:59.804+01:00My hips are sore.I have no cure, only stretching. And I have no particular reason except over-use. And I have no way to avoid over-use that doesn't involve sitting down for long, boring, periods of time. And I hope they feel better in the morning without me having to do anything about it.<br /><br />And now, a poem.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">This is the story of an urbanite</span></span><br /><br />or so you say in that way you have<br />when it gets to that point in wine-consumption<br />that ignites a passion for the centre-stage.<br />Under the soft-focus light of an audience<br /><br />I am nothing but polite.<br />You turn your gaze towards me,<br />indicate an appetite for a tale <br />revealing nothing but a crucial oversight. But we are not there yet.<br /><br />The streetlights still orange the windows<br />and you have given nothing of me away.<br />I smile, wait<br />for the rest of the story to latch onto me like a parasite,<br /><br />close my eyes. <span style="font-style:italic;">This is the story<br />of an urbanite,</span> you start again, <span style="font-style:italic;">and her search<br />for a way to begin.</span><br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-68980932461871374712009-07-16T00:47:00.006+01:002009-07-16T00:53:45.473+01:00Science. Poetry.I am not necessarily pleased with how my brain keeps these seemingly disparate subjects in different segments of itself that prefer to be cordoned off and virtually unaware of each other. I'm trying to get one side waving. I'm not sure which side has the longest arms.<br /></br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stem Cell Therapy Symposium, I</span><br /></br><br />Trickery. Trickery and fiddling.<br />This is, we are told, the only way to heal the heart.<br /><br />My heart overhears and it does not like this fact,<br />quotes back some facts that seem to offer counter-argument.<br /><br />I tell it that its research is out of date, that it’s alone,<br />but console it with lies and emotion, hold it steady<br /><br />from its fluttering. Do not falter, I tell it, just because of this.<br />And anyway, I say, breaking is a state of mind. Mostly. <br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-84671611496802213782009-07-10T17:47:00.003+01:002009-07-10T17:55:29.257+01:00I have been re-writing toads. So here it is again.It's probably not that different now I think about it, but it's closer to how it was supposed to be when I got it down the first time.<br /></br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Toads</span><br /><br />At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I<br />have my ears covered as the car pulls off.<br /><br />My dad and I pick our way for the last three hundred metres<br />in the pitchest night through the slap-slap<br /><br />of toad bellies on concrete. There is a flash of carcasses<br />with every sweep of torch, so it's turned off <br /><br />and we are straining our eyes with our heads bent low,<br />afraid for our own weight on soft bodies. <br /><br />The black closes in, so much so that it’s hard to imagine<br />a receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand<br /><br />in my Dad’s hand. The search for the ground is pointless so<br />I close my eyes against the nature of the dark.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-60861562769330575912009-07-10T17:43:00.001+01:002009-07-10T17:54:54.766+01:00I'm really quite sad about not being able to see foliage any more.I don't remember being consulted. And now I won't know which skirt to wear because there's nothing I can see that will indicate how windy it is in the morning.<br /></br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In memory of the only tree I could see from my bedroom window.</span><br /><br />Forgive me, but I am thinking of you again.<br />They were chopping down the tree in your old front garden<br />when I woke up this morning. The unknown bird<br />I hear sometimes will have no place to hide and sing.<br /><br />I Googled you today; your online presence only lists<br />you at your old address, your other name that rare occurence<br />of ‘no results’ – you are lost. I watched the tree come down<br />in pieces and exclaimed to you, though I have no reason<br /><br />to believe you care for birds. I will try just your first name,<br />maybe, and see where in the world you have flown.<br />I used to treasure my space in your life, the one last connection<br />to the past. But I understand, this is what makes me unknowable now.<br /><br />The tree is gone and I am home, the bird unsteady somewhere and in flight.<br />If only I could put it back, crack trunk and green from air.<br />As it is, I am only waiting to happen across you – perhaps<br />face to face in some tree-lined avenue we don’t consider home. <br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-12926569317198329662009-07-08T19:11:00.000+01:002009-07-08T19:12:04.431+01:00..and another.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lengths</span><br /><br />I am underdog despite my 43 lengths<br />so far this morning and it seems my age<br />is holding me back. I cannot keep a straight line to myself<br /><br />and no allowances are made for any mis-timing.<br />The only place I am alone is when I brave the front-crawler<br />whose arms boom at different pitches to each other<br /><br />with every steady stroke. His journey is the bass-line of our orchestra,<br />straight and uncomfortable. The beats pound my heart<br />and I earn my first looks of acknowledgement<br /><br />though it is hard to catch them with eyes <br />stinging from the backsplash. <br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-23859386386822397812009-07-08T13:27:00.001+01:002009-07-08T13:27:32.547+01:00Ok, so it's been longer.. but I've been writing new ones!</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Toads</span><br /><br />At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I<br />have my ears covered as the car pulls off.<br /><br />My dad and I pick our way, for fun,<br />in the pitchest night through the slap-slap<br /><br />of toad bellies on concrete, their high-pitched<br />rumbles. I don’t picture a torch,<br /><br />but I do remember the flash of carcass<br />in the passing of our own car ahead. The black <br /><br />closed in, so much that it’s hard to imagine<br />the receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand<br /><br />in my Dad’s hand and yes, I remember now,<br />my eyes closed against the nature of the dark.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-52113269692298829812009-06-28T20:51:00.002+01:002009-08-09T21:09:27.804+01:00That gap was too large, yes indeed. Won't happen again!</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In the morning</span><br /><br />I remember sneaking in at 5am <br />and hours on my feet replayed through my soles<br />with every beat of aching blood.<br /><br />I remember how you slipped, gentle from sleep <br />and rubbed the life away back into them <br />with cooling hands, perched<br /><br />at the end of the bed. My secret tears<br />faded to sleep except for the crystals<br /><br />now I wake. And my feet, oh my feet,<br />on pillows; your head on the bed.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-29051153412996229692009-06-18T23:28:00.001+01:002009-06-18T23:29:51.718+01:00Let me know what you think of this one, if you're reading...</br><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Be honest now!</span><br /><br /></br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio</span><br /><br />The ink suspended mid-thought, dried<br />in the trappings of nib and well, succumbs<br /><br />to gentle swooshing in hand-warm water <br />where she bathed me once too, small as I was then. <br /><br />She stands for this uncommon ritual. <br />It will take as long as opera for the colours to loosen, <br /><br />for the sink to deepen to lichen green or summer blue. <br />Only the red stains her wrinkling palms <br /><br />as the stubborn brown gives way to her patient hands rocking <br />back and forth in a humming of arias.<br /><br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-13467561381160128002009-06-15T23:14:00.001+01:002009-06-15T23:14:59.946+01:00A week's gone by so quickly, and this one is fast slipping too.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Resting your eyes</span><br /><br />There was something about the way you were sitting, <br />startled, which made me ask. You told me your eyes<br />were closed as a sort of compromise<br />for the time its possible to waste in front of the TV,<br /><br />wearing your eyes out needlessly, shortening their life. <br />I didn't ask, then, any more of your explanation <br />but often wonder if it works for other things. <br />Sometimes I stop myself from seeing you at all <br /><br />in case what we have runs out. Other times I catch you <br />blinking back the sight of characters who've aged unrecognisably.<br /><br />Mostly, though, I watch your closed-eyes vigil with my own eyes <br />open, wearing them out on you and your quiet, secret, snoozing.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-12947241049301412652009-06-08T22:58:00.017+01:002009-06-08T23:16:59.891+01:00A new one. And a nightmare in html.</br><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Swimming</span><br /><br />A polar bear pushes off with its left back foot<br />its fur a waving forest in the flow. It stands up,<br />shakes the wet from its ears,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;walks back.<br /><br />A pygmy marmoset is frightened<br />by the size of our faces; tries to feed while we peer<br />at its exquisite flash of tongue; plays hide and<br />hide with a quizzical look we treasure for days.<br /><br />An oilslick raven buries twigs under dinosaur feet,<br />its beak a delicate tool in sand. The sun is out. Tapirs<br />surprise us with their heft on straw. The polar bear<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;pushes off with its left back foot, its fur a waving forest in the flow.<br />It stands up, shakes the wet from its ears,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;walks back.<br /><br />A leopard looks straight at me through glass,<br />rubs its fur against the window pacing paw-shaped grooves<br />we do not notice for the speed at which it moves.<br /><br />A raven, oilslick black against the sky, perches<br />watching twigs disappearing under sand.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;River hog bristles are still<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in hot air.<br /><br />The polar bear pushes off with<br />its left back foot, its fur a waving forest<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in the flow&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It stands up, shakes<br />the wet from its ears,<br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;walks back.Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-33107234236241448292009-05-31T18:15:00.005+01:002009-05-31T18:17:45.722+01:00Welcome back to the Black Clock Arms; every pub you've ever avoided.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Black Clock Arms<br /><br />IV. Babs</span><br /><br />She knows she's only there as the inevitable<br />namesake but revels in attention lavished <br /><br />on her by rough old queens. <span style="font-style:italic;">It's all natural,<br />duckie!</span> rings sharp through karaoke notes.<br /><br />She flashes her puce nails; works there<br />on the basis that she only pulls pints; <br /><br />is wary of newcomers, who see through rouge<br />with clarity not befitting dim strip-lighting; prefers <br /><br />the company of regular strangers, who don't see <br />her face, but never fail to compliment her nails.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-15664803242439076522009-05-31T18:07:00.002+01:002009-05-31T18:16:31.510+01:00</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Black Clock Arms</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">III. Geoff</span><br /><br />Geoff's shined velvet seat, black with polished dirt, <br />cools in the almost-night Black Clock Arms.<br />He'd lost touch with the flesh of himself until it started to brown. <br /><br />He sits several feet from the people he recognises<br />but can't place the names of out here; their stories fade<br />in the light. His pint and his arse reach a unison of temperature: <br /><br />one warming on the bar, the other cooling on a bollard, <br />while he realises how little he cares about the barstool <br />now the only place to chain smoke is here. <br /><br />The only thing missing is a place for the smaller papers, spread <br />open and every sentence read and repeated over again<br />to kill the time he has more of, now, to himself.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-31562786890847395252009-05-25T22:48:00.002+01:002009-05-25T22:50:18.039+01:00I shall be starting yoga again very soon, so this is apt.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">To be still.</span><br /><br />Grandstanding with my knees on my elbows <br />and in one of my favourite outfits—a skirt <br />I bought two of, a black cardigan—<br />I am at tipping point when I come to the realisation <br /><br />that it's not about strength, but balance. And here, now, <br />I feel a little silly for the times I've almost toppled, <br />straining in almost-position wearing jogging bottoms<br />and a Pennywise t-shirt, waiting for the muscles in my arms. <br /><br />Weightlessness, like someone said, occurs <br />firstly in your toes. The only thing that stops me <br />breaking my nose is knitwear <br />friction on the backs of my arms.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-7673878353417782642009-05-17T18:49:00.000+01:002009-05-17T18:50:34.603+01:00Tattoos</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Waiting at Northside for you</span><br /><br />There is only one red sofa and anyway it has the best view <br />of the green three-breasted women I can find. Every time <br />I've been here a man with a balding head has chosen 'luck' over 'love'<br />and would have 'sex' if only the option was displayed on the wall.<br /><br />There is a buzzing in the absence of scream, and an awful lot of<br />blood, concealed and sanitised amidst the cartoon colours<br />of juicy hearts struck through; and a language of needles:<br />the backpieces, half-sleeves and cover-ups—the freehand fee. <br /><br />A pregnant woman hums a tune either side of the mechanical whine<br />when the sudden burst door shouts a social conscience<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Don't do it!</span> There is a ripple of laughter but it is too late for you, <br />who emerges beaming and bleeding and ready for home.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-49729287238860445162009-05-15T22:36:00.000+01:002009-05-15T22:37:08.568+01:00It's nice to be able to post more than once a day</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Birthday Sessions</span> tracks 5-18</span><br /><br />Only that it seemed the right thing at the time,<br />to keep pressing <span style="font-style:italic;">record</span>, to tempt out tunes<br />you only appreciated as halves in a fishpond memory<br />you had willingly drained, to wait the several phrases<br />before your fingers found their feet, to push,<br />to remember myself a childhood spent bouncing<br />on your foot under the pretence of making you stop.<br /><br />But listening back, the tracks are mostly talking<br />and the beginnings are missing. And the tinny tunes<br />don’t convey the mythology of it, the smiling<br />recollection of it, the fairy lights and dark curtains<br />that turned everything cosy, the journey<br />we were all taking with you, the absences <br />that have since come clear. <br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-19703982514657997522009-05-15T22:17:00.000+01:002009-05-15T22:18:27.619+01:00I've been reading an awful lot of Donaghy.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Snowglobes</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">after Michael Donaghy<br /></span><br />They have long since lost the air of delicacy<br />you expect, but it is a common condition, the longing.<br />I too am convinced there is a word for them missing,<br />erased neatly except for the gap, but they are not metaphors.<br /><br />They do not house importance in their swirling plastic storms;<br />remember how we stood that time with our most sarcastic voices<br />praising the value for money, the <span style="font-style:italic;">‘igh quality</span> purchases<br />we were mad to walk away from? It is just another way<br /><br />of summing up a place for all the reasons you don’t recognise<br />in landmarks. Maybe we do hold them high above our heads,<br />but it is not carefully. In the same way we never visit<br />our hometown’s icons, they are long since plastic.<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-17222665722160586112009-05-13T23:26:00.001+01:002009-05-13T23:26:41.503+01:00Cells speak.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Riding Out</span><br /><br />We did not hear God’s words. If God spoke<br />it was not on a cellular level, but we ride out<br />with the rest of them on those intentions.<br /><br />It starts here, we perform. A chemical reaction,<br />divide and replace. No words. Only ever<br />the endless balance, the timeless demands.<br /><br />Forwards is not just on through the horse’s mane<br />and ahead into fields, but onwards into time as well.<br />We can see a lack of hope despite the hope<br /><br />of thousands. We know this will not end well.<br />When does it ever end well? Function is repetitive<br />and not exact; we lose sight of the perfection<br /><br />with every repeat. The future would do well<br />to take note, but we have no sway in the decisions.<br />You say we are remembered, but what is memory when God is involved?<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-303901019433557417.post-40069694204781399872009-05-13T00:16:00.004+01:002009-05-13T23:26:52.023+01:00A very new one, still fresh.</br><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Point</span><br /><br />We’ll begin this time with the atmosphere—I am too tired<br />to consider the vastness beyond, though you do seem to be pointing<br />upward, outward, towards existence itself. But you say <span style="font-style:italic;">no</span>,<br />you are not pointing at that. I bring the focus closer and clouds come clear—<br />I see ducks and the obligatory ice-cream cone. But <span style="font-style:italic;">no</span>, you say, <span style="font-style:italic;">not that<br />not that</span>. The tree, I think, and I begin to try to figure out which leaf<br />it is you’re asking for – because it is an ask, it seems to me, though not<br />a big one. <span style="font-style:italic;">What would I want with a leaf?</span> you say. <span style="font-style:italic;">What interest would I have<br />in that?</span> I am struggling, seek the answers in tricks of circumstance.<br />The window, perhaps, the glass. The very thing I am taking for granted. <span style="font-style:italic;">No</span>.<br />Your finger, then, the nail upon it. I set up my own laugh as I search your face.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Is it that?</span>. Your head is shaking, side to side to side, your eyes are sad<br />with decline. I am firmly in the room, the walls are puce, the smell a distraction<br />from the truth of it. My laugh is still waiting. It must be, then, the cells of you.<br />The failing, flailing cells of you, dividing, slowly slower. Your hand, still pointing,<br />wavers. Your heart beats on. <span style="font-style:italic;">Take care of the pieces</span>, you say, <span style="font-style:italic;">look to the future</span>.<br />I follow your point backwards up your arm and on to your stubbled face.<br />Why is it the future is always away, up and out?<br /><br />Catalogue25http://www.blogger.com/profile/02863458501695192139noreply@blogger.com0